Daddy's Little Girl
by Bookjunk
Summary: ABANDONED STORY. DON'T THINK I WILL EVER FINISH IT. Night. A phone call. Alex's father has been murdered. A list turns into a mission and her resolve to take on the man responsible for her father's death grows stronger. Batman must die.
1. Phone call

Set after The Dark Knight.

Obviously, Batman isn't mine. I wish. Well, mainly I wish Christian Bale was mine, but I digress.

**Prologue | Phone Call**

In the dead of the night a woman was sleeping soundly. Through her thin curtains the red lights of the level crossing could be blurrily seen flashing and because her window was closed the tolling of the bell was not audible. It was eerily silent in her bedroom. You would have had to listen very closely to discern her breathing, for otherwise it was too soft to disturb the silence. If a swat team had busted through her door at that moment they would have thought she was dead. Suddenly the cell on her nightstand started to ring softly. The woman moaned and turned over in her sleep. The ringtone kept getting louder and louder until the woman slowly awoke and pressed the green phone symbol.

"Yes?"

"Hi honey," the voice on the other end attempted cheerily, but Alex wasn't fooled as she sat up straight.

"Mom, what's wrong? Did something happen to Earle?"

"Oh no, Earle is fine. Don't worry about him. And I'm fine too," her mother was quick to reassure her.

"Then what?"

"Have you watched the news or listened to the radio today?" her mother anxiously asked.

"No, should I have?" Alex asked, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes.

"You should always try to stay up-to-date, dear. The number of times I've told…"

"Mom!" Alex snapped

"Ok, ok. I don't really know how to... So, I'll just… Your father was killed. He was shot," the disembodied voice informed her.

"Oh," she managed to respond and then, "Did they catch the murderer?"

A lengthy silence followed until her mother cleared her throat and laughed awkwardly.

"Do they know who did it?" Alex tried again.

"Well, they say they know who it is, but is all seems so ridiculous," her mother finally offered.

"Who?"


	2. The list

**Chapter One | The List**

Batman killed my father, thus I must kill Batman.

That sounds positively insane. Worthy of a nice little padded cell in Arkham. As I was making my way back to my apartment after work I was, for the umpteenth time, going over the list of reasons why I should not attempt to go after Batman. Behind me footsteps echo against the dark walls of the alley.

_1. Batman is a hero. That means he must have had a reason to kill my father and the others (Very Spiderman-kills-the-Green-Goblin, which means I am Harry. Pretty, but dumb)._

_2. Batman is a hero, so why would he care about my father? I sure as hell didn't while he was still alive._

_3. Batman is a hero. I'm just a girl. Guess who will win._

_4. Batman is a hero. Secret identity. Yadda yadda yadda. I will NEVER meet him, unless I become a villain with a snappy name._

_5. I can only come up with four reasons why I should not go after Batman. Again a sign that I belong in a mental institution._

The list was pointless anyway, since I never cared about my father, so why avenge him? I am officially the crappiest daughter ever.

He took me on his beat once, during one of those take your kids to work days. He was a traffic cop back then. I was very impressed. He had a gun! And a badge! He could tell people what to do and they had to listen! So, a car sped by us and we gave chase. Not really a chase, actually, because he turned on the sirens and the driver of the speeding car pulled over immediately. He told me to sit tight and then he went over to talk to the driver. Suddenly I was worried that the driver was a criminal and would shoot him or something, but the driver simply rolled down the window and they discussed something. Because all the windows and doors of the car I was in were closed I could not hear what they were saying, but I could see the driver slipping my father some money. Now he's in trouble, I thought. Now he's going to jail for bribing a police officer. Instead my father glanced around, took the money and walked back to me.

Since that day I have sabotaged our relationship. Maybe that is why I think I should avenge his death; because it would make me a better daughter? Whatever.

The footsteps are becoming louder. Mildly worried I root around in my looking for my gun, which of course isn't loaded, so all I can possibly do with it is scare away whoever is following me. Or pummel him. As it is I never get the chance to discover its various uses because someone shoves me from behind and the entire contents of my bag spill across the cobbled street when I drop it. Falling forward I try to locate the gun, until I realise it's in my other bag, in the closet, at home.

My attacker pins me to the ground, his knee in the hollow of my back. My cheek scrapes against the dirty, wet bricks. With eyes and hands I look and feel around for a weapon, anything, but there is nothing. In the distance there is traffic noise and the faint noises of people; here is just his heavy breathing. I can hear him rooting around in my bag. Quickly I try to push myself up, but he merely presses his knee down. Groaning I lay down again. My breathing is accelerated and stunted, my heart races. Tears almost spring to my eyes. But the worst thing about it is the feeling in the pit of my stomach. Something horrible is going to happen. He's going to hurt me. Every muscle in my face hardens and my legs kick and trash, but he doesn't seem to mind. Maybe he's one of those who like a little fight in a woman. I remember what my father said when he gave me the gun.

"This city is not safe"

"For little girls?"

"For anyone"

Now would be a perfect time for Batman to swoop in and save the damsel in distress, so of course he doesn't.


	3. The one who got away

**Chapter Two | The one who got away**

Perhaps me actually calling out for help would have helped with, you know, getting helped. Luckily I remember in time the gun wasn't the only thing my father gave me. For my seventeenth birthday he gave me a gym membership. I loved kickboxing.

The feeling of helplessness evaporates and I feel like Popeye chewing a healthy dose of spinach. I may be a girl and I may be tiny, but helpless I am not. Throwing my elbow backwards I feel it connect with his jaw and hear a satisfying thud followed by a groan. The guy falls to my left and I manage to get up. Touching the side of his face gently and with a baffled expression in his eyes he stares at me. Seeing me standing upright he tries to get out of his crouch, but I kick him in the crotch. Moaning he tumbles over and pulls into a foetus position. The ground steady beneath my feet again I look at him and think this is the time to escape. That's the principle of self-defence, isn't it? You temporarily incapacitate your attacker and run or get help. Planting my feet more firmly and loosening my shoulders I say, "Screw self-defence!"

He may have a few pounds on me and be bigger, but he hurt me and now I'll hurt him. I'm an idiot, right. The guy slicks his black hair back while getting to his feet. He is rather handsome in a slippery Italian kind of way. His black suit with light-blue blouse underneath it looks very expensive, even with the mud stains adorning it. Probably Armani or Hugo Boss or something similar. Why would something dressed like that rob someone dressed like me? But what startles me most is how young he appears. His build suggests he is in his twenties, twenty-five at most; so around my age. His facial features however are unmistakably boyish. The innocent, soft eyes, the full rosy cheeks. A mean smirk ruins the illusion.

Hopping from one foot to the next I asses him again. He _is _one of those. Men who enjoy humiliating, violating women and when we fight back the pleasure increases exponentially. Perhaps he wasn't trying to rob me after all. The bastard is still smirking when I dart forward and break his nose with my fist. Blood spurts out as he grabs his no-longer-so-beautifully arched nose and grimaces in pain. My knuckles are grazed, but I revel in the pain. Fighting makes me feel like I am…fighting for something. The scrapes, the cuts, the soreness of my knuckles always make me calm. Plus, my nose got broken once during a fight and that shit fucking smarts. That was about the time my mother insisted I quit the sport. Suddenly the guy lunges at me and hits me in the side. For a moment I double over in pain and can't breathe, but I pull myself together and clock him in the ribs.

We are both panting by now, but I bank on me being a bit physically fitter than him and go in for the attack again. I land a solid punch on his right eye. He winces because I hit his nose too. A big dark stain is forming on his light-blue blouse and blood is still dripping from his nose. He no longer seems angry and intend on hurting me so much as wanting me not to hurt him anymore. After looking at me one last time he runs away and I briefly consider going after him, but don't.

I've got an idea. Maybe the list isn't pointless. To meet Batman I don't have to become a villain, like listed in point four; I could just be a victim. Not in a dark alley of course, but somewhere public where he'd be alerted and have time to rescue me. Don't know what I'll do when we are face to mask. Not kill him, that's for sure. I would like to fight him though. Not to win, but just to beat and bruise him a little bit, perhaps that would make me feel better. I guess I'll just ask him why he killed my father. Suddenly there are footsteps behind me again and I feel a sharp pain in my lower back. The world turns into snapshots.

I am falling forwards.

The bricks are slowly moving towards me.

My chin hits the street.

My hand feels my back.

My hand comes back bloody.

Feet next to my face.

Feet and legs walking away.

A knife in the guy's hand.

The realisation: he came back to stab me.

--

Don't know if anyone is reading (or enjoying) this, but if you are reviews are always appreciated. Thanks!


	4. Justice vs revenge

**Chapter Three | Justice vs. Revenge**

When I open my eyes the first thing I see is my mother crying.

"Alex, Alex. William, she's awake," she calls happily out into the hall. The bed is uncomfortable, everything is white and the smell of disinfectant and chemicals is foremost in the air. My mother's eyes are red, her mascara blotted and her face is anxious. Earle comes in from the hallway, where he was undoubtedly blackmailing or threatening some poor member of the hospital staff to get me a bigger, prettier room.

"Hi Earle. Where am I? GGH?" I croak. My voice has never been the most feminine of voices, but the version I'm sporting now really takes the cake. Gravelly. Mother glances at Earle, worried.

"No honey, how can you be at GGH? The Joker blew it up. Don't you remember? You do remember, right?"

"Mom! Take it easy. I've been stabbed. My mind is still a bit scrambled. Of course, I remember," I reassure her while rolling my eyes at Earle, "Could you get me some ice cream?"

Confused she stares at me and gets up from the chair.

"Ice cream? Wouldn't you rather have me stay here? Earle could…" she murmurs, but Earle cuts in and mentions he has seen an ice cream truck standing across the street from the hospital. Unsure she kisses my cheek and says she'll get a doctor to come in and check on me. As soon as she's out the door I attempt to raise myself, but a sharp pain shoots through my lower back and I fall back. A doctor comes in and explains the knife missed all vital organs.

"Are there organs that are not vital?" I joke and we share a polite laugh, mine hampered considerably by, you know, the stab wound in my back. The doctor assures me I'll be fine and probably released from the hospital in a few days. When he leaves I finally manage to prop myself up into an upright position.

"Mom's taking quite long, isn't she, Earle?"

Earle chuckles and admits there is no ice cream truck across the street.

"You've got to stop calling me Earle, your mother thinks it's because you still have trouble accepting our marriage. Plus, I don't go around calling you Wuertz, now do I? Sounds good though."

"It does, doesn't it? Earle, seriously, you have to promise me something," I demand and motion for him to take the seat my mother vacated. He complies and leans closer.

"This guy who stabbed me?"

"Yes?"

"Promise me you won't go after him."

Pursing his lips in defiance he leans back. He scrutinised my face intently and eventually sighed.

"Why would I do that?" he asks.

"Make the promise or go after him?" I counter and he smiles indulgently.

"The former, naturally. Don't tell me he was just a punk. He could have killed you," Earle insists and there is a dangerous edge to his words I haven't heard before.

"It was my fault too. I should have just run, instead of staying and fighting him," I confess and Earle shakes his head in disapproval, "Don't tell mom, she'll have a stroke."

The wound is starting to throb painfully and I shift into a more comfortable position all the while aware of Earle who is practically taking me apart and reassembling me with his gaze, like a soldier would a weapon, manually. Around my knuckles are bandages, so I lay my hands down with palms facing upwards.

"Look Earle, you've got contacts in those sorts of circles, I'm sure. So feel free to track down the guy, but once you find him, _if_ you find him, he's to be delivered to the police. Don't go executing your own brand of justice," I state firmly.

"What I'd do to him wouldn't be justice; it would be revenge. Two vastly different things," he remarks casually.

"Whatever. I just want to be clear. The police will deal with him, not you. Do you understand?"

Earle glares at me and while I wait for his answer I can actually hear a clock ticking. And the wheezing breath of someone, coming from behind the curtain around a hospital bed opposite from me. There is no way I will be able to sleep with that air circulation going on. Finally he nods.

"Your father…" he begins.

"I don't want to talk about my father."

"Well, you'd better get your shit together, because your mother is talking about moving to Gotham. This fatalistic thing you've got going on has to stop. Walking alone through dark alleys, fighting with gangsters. And I'd like you to consider seeing a therapist. Mourning the death of your father…" Earle attempts.

"I don't want to talk about him. I am not mourning," I object.

"That's why I want you to talk to a therapist," he replies, with a smile, but I avert my gaze.

"Can I ask you something?" Earle with the questions again, "I am pretty shady. Your mother may not know it, but we both know it. How come you find my shadiness amusing and still manage to like me, when you completely shut your father out for exactly the same reason?"

--

I'm not really familiar with the fiction ratings, since I live in the Netherlands, so if you find something too violent or the language too coarse for a K+ rating, I'd be much obliged if you'd warn me so I can change it or move the story to a more appropriate rating category. Thanks! And reviews are again very welcome.


	5. Justice for some?

**Chapter Four | Justice for some?**

The disinfectant smell is replaced by a sneeze-inducing flowery scent as a big bouquet makes its way into the hospital room. As it moves to the right the face of Jim Gordon is revealed. Grateful for the reprieve his arrival grants me I beam a smile at him.

"Commissioner Gordon, you shouldn't have done that," I say and Jim looks a bit confused as he lays down the bouquet on the side table, until he glances at the bouquet again and pries a card from between the blue and white flowers.

"As a matter of fact, I didn't. It's from Bruce Wayne," he clarifies and he hands the card to me. Before opening it I correct him and say that it's from Wayne Enterprises. Indeed, when I open the smooth, white card it reads a standard 'Get well, Alex, from Wayne Enterprises' written in a feminine handwriting with underneath it a stamp of Bruce Wayne's signature. I'm sure Wayne never laid eyes of the card; some secretary who probably thinks I'm a man signed the card and neatly stamped it. Putting the card aside I stare at Earle until he excuses himself to look for a vase and, as an afterthought, my mother. Meanwhile Jim sits down and smoothes the creases in his pants.

"I spoke with the doctor and he says everything is going to be fine. That must be quite the relief," he says and I nod. His hair is streaked with grey and his moustache is growing lighter. Sometimes it is hard to believe my father worked with him. Maybe even harder that he appeared to value my father as a cop. Then again, why not? James seems very trustworthy, but he also looks like he is too trusting.

"I'm sorry about your father. I meant to inform you personally, but it was all over the news and when I called your mother to ask for you address she said she'd already phoned you," he apologises.

"And now this…" he begins, but falters and smiles again, "when I saw you lying there…"

"You found me?" I ask, surprised and he seems surprised as well.

"Nobody told you?"

"No. Thanks. No really, thank you so much. After everything you've already done for me to also be the one to save me. I don't know how I'll ever be able to repay you," I say sincerely. Flustered, he averts his eyes.

"Don't know what I've done," he murmurs.

"Are you kidding me? You gave me shooting lessons, taught me how to use my gun. You employed my father after Internal Affairs did that investigation of him and no one wanted him. And now you saved my life," I sum up.

"About your father, how are you doing?" he inquires in earnest. His blue eyes pierce into mine and the difference between my father and him is rather striking. My father looked suspicious at best, while Jim's eyes are all honestly and loyalty. I swallow and my back aches again.

"I feel horrible…for not feeling horrible about his death. I don't care."

"What makes you think that," Jim asks genuinely concerned. I fidget with the bandages of my hands, glance out of the window and adjust the sheets.

"Because I don't love him. I never did, you know that."

"I know nothing. I always thought you moved back to Gotham, because you wanted to be closer to him. Was I wrong?" Jim asks.

"I love Gotham. That's why I moved back," I answer and the pain in my back is killing me now. Shouldn't there be an I.V. drip with painkillers or something? Grimacing, I adjust the sheets again.

"Regardless of how you felt about him as a cop, was he a good father?" Jim questions and that is really the point, isn't it. Earle is dishonest and corrupt and I don't care. But Earle is not my father. Forgiveness isn't so easy when you idolised the person who makes the mistakes.

"I wouldn't know. He never got a chance to be one. Not on my watch. Please don't suggest therapy. It wouldn't be right for me to smack the police commissioner on the back of his head," I answer. Jim laughs and changes the topic. I agree to come in to the station to give a statement and look at photos when I'm released from the hospital. He apologises that my stabbing probably won't be priority, but promises he will do all he can to catch the attacker.

"Don't promise me you'll get him. And don't apologise. Forget it James, this is Gotham."

"Yes, justice for all doesn't appear to apply here. Justice for some, perhaps," he admits, almost ashamed. I take his hand and reassure him that without him it would be certainly be justice for none. Flustered for the second time, he tries to hide his slight blush as Earle and mother enter the room. Quickly he wishes me well and leaves. Tired I sit my mother down and suddenly remember something.

"Mom, is someone looking after Diefenbaker?" My mother pats my hand and straightens my sheets.

"Your dog is all taken care of, sweetie. William took care of that," she comforts me as Earle makes a throat-slit gesture and I crack up. Wiping away tears of laughter and subsequent back pain, as my mother looks on confused, I access my stern voice.

"Mom, listen. This was just an incident. Other than this I'm fine, really. Abso-freaking-lutely fine. There is no, and I repeat, no reason for you and Earle to move to Gotham. Don't you dare do that," I state and firmly look at both my mother and Earle. Admonishing, my mother glances at Earle, but she relents and promises not to do anything rash as long as I promise not to either.

"Now, get out of here! I've got no use for you. Look at the time, I've already missed my soap," I gently chide them and Earle ushers mom out of the room, who however can't resist popping in again to kiss me and tell me she'll be back tomorrow with books and ice cream. Finally alone. Well, except for the awful wheeze of a breath coming from the bed beside me. I wouldn't be surprised if when the curtain opens Darth Vader would be revealed.

"Justice for some? Good thing revenge is always on the menu. Now, I've got time to think up a plan. How to be a victim for dummies."

--

Reviews are very welcome (again).


	6. Busy be a liar

**Chapter Five | Busy be a liar**

A week after the unfortunate fight with my attacker I wake up in my own bed for the first time. No wheezing to keep me awake. Well, except for Diefenbaker, who has practically taken over the bed and is so glad I'm back that he refuses to vacate the bedroom. Moaning I roll out of bed and turn off the alarm. Before I go in to work I will have to give a statement at the station. Fairly pointless, I think, but I'll do it to please _Commissioner Gordon._ Gosh, that sounds hot! In my teens I used to have an enormously embarrassing crush on him. Something about him is just so…reliable and it's pretty sexy. Also, the moustache… To this day I have a soft spot for him.

Diefenbaker watches me dress with a look of confusion in his eyes, as I ouch and moan my way into my clothes. I've got to start kickboxing again. Diefenbaker's big blue eyes follow me around the house, making breakfast and eyeing the list on the refrigerator door.

"Bye, cutie!" I say and he barks.

***

At the station I give my statement to Jim after objecting to him personally taking down the statement.

"Honestly Jim, you're the Commissioner now. You should be sitting in your office sipping whisky and complaining about having too few men and too little money."

Jim frowns and I bow my head in shame as I confess the part about fighting the attacker. Disapproving, he shakes his head and sighs, but doesn't comment. When we're done with the statement he brings me the mug shots.

"There's a big chance he's somewhere in here. The same criminals are committing all the crimes," he says, apologetically. Flipping through the pages I notice a lot of them are dark, tall, Italian looking guys.

"The entire Falcone and Maroni crime families are in here, I presume?" I ask and Jim nods while my eyes are attracted by a photo at the top right of the left page. This page doesn't consist of mug shots, but photos seemingly taken from quite a distance. Zooming in with a hidden camera? Leaning closer I scrutinise the photo more intently.

"Got one?"

"I don't think so. It's not him. But he does look a lot like him. The eyes and the nose, mostly. But my attacker was younger and more handsome," I explain and he looks over my shoulder at the photo above my finger. Jim mouths his name, "Alberto Falcone" and shakes his head almost imperceptibly.

"That's Carmine Falcone's son. I doubt it's him too. He hasn't actually done anything. Yet. And if he finally makes his move I'd be surprised if it was something as trivial as attacking a girl in an alley. No offense," he murmurs and rubs his eyes. He looks tired. Tired because of getting too little sleep, but I expect more tired of the game of catch and release he is forced to play every day of his life. Must be rough, to have to come into work each morning and go home and never lose the feeling that what you've done is meaningless. Perhaps today a criminal is behind bars, perhaps he is not; knowing that no matter how hard you try it's only in films that the criminals gets their asses kicked. In real life the good people are the ones getting the crap beaten out of them, day in, day out.

"Has he, by any chance, got a son?" I inquire, hopefully.

"Not that we know of. I'm sorry. I really thought your attacker would be in there. Ok, we're done, I guess," he says and I get up from the uncomfortable chair, which was adding to the strain in my back, "Just one more thing. Considering you already thought fighting your attacker was smart I don't want you to do other clever things, like, say, go after him."

I smirk at him and he smiles in return. Yep, still sexy.

"I'm not interested in him."

"In _him_? You're not seriously thinking about… Alex," his voice sounds like only a father's voice can sound. Disappointed, reprimanding and concerned for my safety.

"Gordon, don't worry. _He_ is none of my concern. Furthermore, if he killed my father, my father deserved it," I attempt to assuage his worries, but even to me it sounds wrong. Too cold, too distanced. Also, of course, a lie.

"It is Gordon now, is it?" he jokes, but his stern eyes tell me he is not fooled nor should I try to fool him.

"I have to go to work."

***

Sneaking into the building I bow, to be able to scurry properly, but my back plays up again. Involuntarily emitting a soft groan, I stumble onto the floor. Immediately a flock of co-workers surround me with questions and anxious or curious faces.

how is your back were you really stabbed i'll walk you home if you want me to did you id the attacker i hear you threw in some punches as well is that true are you feeling ok leave her alone when did you get back from the hospital what did the doctors say I bet you'll be more careful next time around people give her some air did they find the knife cops are useless you think with the description you gave them they'll arrest him did you get the flowers we sent you

"People, she's just been released from the hospital. Go easy on her, please," my boss, Stewart, intervenes and he leads me across the entire room through the familiar paths until we reach my cubicle. I shrug of my bag, trying not to bend and gently sit down. The boss' glasses teeter on the edge of his thick nose. Swathes of luscious brown hair cover his ears, no doubt hiding the hairs growing out his ears, and the whole of the top of his head.

"As you noticed we're all glad you're out of the hospital and feeling well enough to come in. Don't know what Wayne Shipping would do without you. Look, today is mostly meetings, but if you need anything just call," Stewart offers, generously.

"I think you've got that backwards," I joke, "Aren't I supposed to come running when _you_ need something?"

"Don't think you'll be doing a lot of running for some time," he smiles and waves as he leaves. I settle down and the hours until lunch I spend working away a pile of overseas shipping forms and vacillating between uncomfortable positions. After lunch, and an impromptu interrogation from colleagues, I finish the rest of the pile. About an hour before closing time I'm done and feeling quite sorry for myself – poor back, poor me – I decide to indulge and play a few computer card games. Within a short while I'm completely absorbed.

"Don't let your boss see you're doing that."

Trying to control my breathing and heartbeat my chair does a quick 180, sending a sharp pain through my lower back. Behind me, with a huge smirk, Bruce Wayne is standing. Breathless and stumped for something to say I reply, stupidly.

"You're my boss."

Mr. Wayne leans over the partition of my cubicle. He's dressed in a dark blue suit, with pinkish blouse and purple tie. He blinks innocently, well, attempts too anyway, with a reputation like his I imagine it is nearly impossible to pull off innocent. Smarmy, he responds, a smile tugging at his lips.

"Do I have to be? It would be wrong to flirt then, right?"

He winks and steps into my cubicle; a little thing I also like to refer to as my personal space. Leaning over me, his lips barely inches away from my face, he taps on the screen.

"The King of Hearts goes there. See?"

"Smooth," I remark, recovering swiftly. Wayne chuckles and moves out of the way. Standing back a little, but still inside the cubicle, he studies me.

"You think?"

"Yes, your technique is essentially flawless. A bit too polished for my taste, I'd have to say, but otherwise quite irresistible. Do women usually fall for it?"

"At first? Not all of them. Eventually though, they invariably do."

Stewart comes rushing over, drops some files on my desk and whisks Wayne away. He tips an imaginary hat at me and follows Stewart into his office. Watching him retreat I eye his assets. A fine specimen, indeed. Very shallow flirter, though. I get the idea he would have flirted equally with Sandra, one cubicle to the left, or Monica, three cubicles to the right. And he would have forgotten about them immediately too. Ah well. With half an hour left on the clock I open one of the files and the requisite computer file.

"263 crates of explosives for building implosions. That's not right. That's not a three, it's a two. Well, it is now. 262 crates. Save. Close."

--

Sorry for the long wait. The chapter is longer than usual, though. Reviews are more than welcome!


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